


Damaged Goods

by orphan_account



Category: Far Cry 3
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2039268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason is, was, and always will be the master of his domain -- No matter what it takes to get back to that point.</p><p>Drabble set after the "good" ending of Far Cry 3. Though I would argue the term "good" is used rather generously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damaged Goods

Warrior or victim?

Helpless or in control?

Did the truth lie somewhere in the middle or was Jason no longer a person, but merely a force of nature?

After killing, looting and pillaging his way across Rook Island in the name of nothing more than the manipulations of a beautiful witch, Jason was inclined to believe he was never truly human to begin with. 

“Jason.” A far away voice called out his name. “Jason! Do you hear me? Your deadline -- Your photos are past due.” No reply. “Do you hear me, Jason?”

It was such a shock to hear the voice of his old editor, in his old land, in his old clothes. Some days he wished he had just slit Liza’s throat when he had the chance.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.” He wasn't sorry for anything except that he couldn't crush the man’s throat, fingers pressing intimately against all the right curves, rejoicing as he felt the final, fulfilling snap as his editor’s windpipe caved to the pressure and smiling as the pleasing melody of the last gasps and gurgles sung the man’s last rites.

“I’ll have them ready by five.”

The darkness buried him long ago and the island was his epitaph. 

It wasn't breaking news when the police arrived at Jason’s door the next morning, nor was there any fanfare as the ambulance arrived, carrying him away to his final peace on a rolling cart in a large black bag. The only one who seemed to notice was the caretaker of the building, who mumbled as he polished the final bits of Jason’s brain out of the walls and scrubbed his blood deep into the grain of the wooden floors.

Now he was free to return to his hell -- his island. The paradise where he belonged, no longer a slave to the deadlines or the responsibilities of city life. He was free to hunt, like the predator he was born to be, and he was certain he wouldn't ever trade that existence for any sort of real estate heaven may have had to offer.


End file.
